


Golden Hour

by Mallaeus



Series: Mallaeus' Hades Fics [1]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst, Elysium Sucks, Established Relationship, Fate, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Meditation, Memories, Memory Loss, Separations, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-28 14:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: Warm night — the air perfumed with olive blossom and dried blood. Waves lapping at the shore, drowning out the sleeping moans of the other soldiers — minds drifting in dreams to their homes, their wives, the lives lost and sundered to the endless grind of bodies atop the scorched sand. A voice somewhere from above, familiar. Half-sleeping eyes open and rise to meet a face framed in golden light. Flaxen curls spill forth and down, mingling with the dark ringlets which fall around his own shoulders. Sadness in the features, etched into the lines of the skin, kiss-stained corners of the lips turned down. He leans upwards, catches that sadness in his mouth, swallows it.Time passes, quiet returns, broken only by a voice hushed, near-silent in the crackling air.“Pat, the war won’t go on forever.”“That is exactly what I fear.”Risen from Tartarus by a benefactor whose name and face he cannot recall, Patroclus passes his days under the monotonous sun of Elysium, tending to his garden and meditating by the shore of the Lethe, seeking to piece together his memories.My own personal take on the story arc of Achilles and Patroclus, from the latter's perspective.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Series: Mallaeus' Hades Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218398
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You already knew this was coming. How could I ignore not only the game of the year, but the one with three MLM couples filled with angst, pining and big, meaty [claws]?
> 
> My intention had been to write the entirety of this before posting, but I am pathologically incapable of not posting my work as I finish it. Expect no schedule, the chapters will come as they're finished. I'm planning for this to be one in a short series of works, all in the game's universe.
> 
> Otherwise, read and enjoy, and don't hesitate to let me know how you feel below, unless you don't like it in which case keep quiet.

_ Warm night — the air perfumed with olive blossom and dried blood. Waves lapping at the shore, drowning out the sleeping moans of the other soldiers — minds drifting in dreams to their homes, their wives, the lives lost and sundered to the endless grind of bodies atop the scorched sand. A voice somewhere from above, familiar. Half-sleeping eyes open and rise to meet a face framed in golden light. Flaxen curls spill forth and down, mingling with the dark ringlets which fall around his own shoulders. Sadness in the features, etched into the lines of the skin, kiss-stained corners of the lips turned down. He leans upwards, catches that sadness in his mouth, swallows it. _

_ Time passes, quiet returns, broken only by a voice hushed, near-silent in the crackling air. _

_ “Pat, the war won’t go on forever.” _

_ “That is exactly what I fear.” _

* * *

He watched them lope across the grass, spears aloft, in pursuit of some antlered creature. Not a deer exactly. A half-remembered image of one, perhaps, poorly rendered by an unskilled artist. It was the wrong colour, a sickly grey, with an undercurrent of lavender that seemed to iridesce in the eternal noon-sun of the fields. It evaded them on six legs —  _ That can't be right either _ — pulling up clumps of flowered soil as its hooves tore past. Patroclus met its eyes — at least, the pair not tangled in the twisting bramble of antlers above its head — silently wishing it well in its evasion of their speartips. The cohort passed out of sight, their scattered formation betraying their individual desires for glory — to be the first to plunge gilded bronze into that ashen, otherworldly flesh, to draw forth the ambrosial blood from within. 

If the deer got loose they would turn their weapons on each other, tearing and rending their bodies until there was nothing but blood on the grasses. And then they would return, bodies resculpted from the clay, un-life coursing through them once again. It was a theatre he had become accustomed to. He left them, continuing along his way, feet stuttering slightly as his faculties returned to the task at hand. The walk was familiar to him. How many centuries had he passed travelling back and forth between those two spaces? Time was not as it was on the surface. The hours passed by unmarked, the ersatz sun remaining aloft, unmoving, spilling forth its blazing heat without respite. The vault of the firmament seemed lower somehow — far from the cerulean infinity of his vaguely remembered life — betraying their location beneath the rocks and the soil and the bones of he and his fellows. He had never bought the idea of Elysium as paradise — the finality of its nature antithetical to the utopian vision of freedom they had been promised as children, as young warriors. How could one be truly free, if there was never an option to leave? Even as a child, he had thought it a cruel act of the Gods, to bless them with the curse of eternity, ever yearning for the cool darkness of the void.

It was hot, as always. Patroclus' rest — he had stopped calling it sleep some time ago — had been fitful, plunging him as it so often did into the depthless recesses of his memories. He remembered the unconscious dreaming of life, the sudden transitions between sleep and waking. Things were different in death. What passed for sleep in the realm of souls was a mere shifting of perception. The mind would drift, the surrounding world slipping away, fading at the edges, blurring into a zoetrope of half-remembered sights and sounds plumbed from the depths of memory. It was impossible to tell what was real, and what was imagined. The scale of time rendered things irrelevant. Patroclus had spent enough time dead to fill one hundred of his lifetimes on the surface. Yet still, eternity awaited. 

His glade was as he had left it, as it always was. He paused to inspect the statue — half-crumbling, seemingly resistant to the cleansing, restorative aether which repaired all matter — trying in vain to discern a recognizable face among the cracked and faded marble. It was a daily ritual, approaching meditation, as much for his own peace as anything else. He understood little of the metaphysics of the realm, save for that which was explained to him as he was escorted upwards through the realms of Hades. He remembered the figure who drew his formless soul from the murk, the rough hands — a bluish pallor to the skin, not unlike that of the fervent warriors of Elysium, although brimming under the surface with the same divine light as all other immortals. Her demeanour had been cold, disaffected, her features sharp. Her sentences were short and staccato, betraying nothing more than was strictly required of her. Patroclus had been too dazed to respond — awash in the unfamiliar return of his senses after such a time in the pits. 

* * *

_ "The world will shape itself to your command", she said. "To an extent." _

_ She paused to catch his eye, as if to make sure he was listening. He nodded, fearful of the hand which rested above the handle of her whip — that cruel length of rope with which she had so deftly beaten back the crawling wretches who had clung to her, begging for their salvation, as they had ascended towards Elysium.  _

_ "I understand." _

_ "You are free to do as you wish. Should you come to harm, your body will be restored. You need not eat, although provisions will be provided." _

_ "Thank you." _

_ They had paused at the gates to the realm — reaching towards the mountainous sky, lacquered in bronze, the glittering portal into the final heaven of the deserving. And still, something clung to the front of his mind. _

_ "Why am I here?" _

_ He watched a smile pass through her features. It wasn't a gesture of mirth, more of cruelty, a joke at someone else's expense. _

_ "A bargain was struck, a contract signed. His paradise, for yours." _

_ His mind reeled. A name swam beneath the surface, eluding his grasp. A face forgotten in the interim. The depersonifying mists of Tartarus had snatched his memories as keenly as they had dissolved his form. They returned to him in fits and starts, missing faces, gaping holes ripped into the tapestry of his story. _

_ "Who?" _

_ Her smile solidified, something in his pained expression and plaintive voice striking a chord within her. His suffering was exquisite. _

_ "I am not at liberty to say." _

_ His response confused her. He didn't attempt to beg, to grovel at her feet for succor. There were no tears, no screams, no agony. He merely accepted her conclusion, and turned once more towards the gate, which had opened before him. _

_ "Is it true what they say about the river which flows through here? That it can erase memories?" _

_ She nodded. _

_ "Drink the waters of the Lethe and your memories will fade. The effect isn't immediate, but it is irreversible." _

_ "And what becomes of those who do?" _

_ Her smirk returned. _

_ "You'll see." _

* * *

The Lethe was quiet that day — he hadn't quite yet quit the habit of surface partitions of time, despite the difficulty with which one marked their passing in Elysium. Regularly, it babbled along beside him, accompanying his thoughts with the myriad discarded histories of so many heroes. Snatches of conversations, revelry, violence. How many idyllic childhoods had passed under Patroclus' eye, only to fade into grey nothing once more? 

He set his eyes on the grass before him, familiar in colour and texture to that which one might encounter on the surface. He ran his fingers among the blades, seeking the soft, cool earth beneath, pressing his palm close. The glade was shaded by a number of trees — wine-coloured branches weighed heavily by unripe fruits the likes of which Patroclus was not familiar with. In his home he grew plants, coaxed herbs and vegetables to bloom and flourish with all the requisite tenderness required of him. Although food was provided to him in abundance, to eat that which he had procured for himself out of the ground had been a minor joy in the depressing monotony of his non-existence. What time he spent not meditating in the glade, he passed in the garden, knees in the dirt, cloak discarded to feel the warmth of that artificial sun against his skin. Sometimes, up to his knuckles in alien soil, skin aflame and sweat coursing down his body in rivulets, he would feel as though life had returned to him, the weighted coverings of death sloughed off and forgotten. Fleeting as those moments were, he appreciated them all the same.

He had wondered often of the other shades — not the thoughtless barbarians who stalked the rolling fields endlessly in search of new foes, repeating the same insipid ballet of violence they had rehearsed in life. Rather, he contemplated those, like him, who had not given themselves over to the Lethe. He knew of some who resided as he did, carving out their own private spaces among the statues and fountains, whittling away their eternities in solace. He knew of others who sought glory still, desperate to emblazon their names upon the lips of those countless shadows who populated the coliseum. Surely that had already been achieved? Surely to reside in Elysium was glory enough, to be recognized as a hero of the ages, second only to the gods themselves in your power and acclaim? And yet, he watched those former kings throw themselves into the pit over and over again in seeking... something. 

It was fruitless, in any case. No one had defeated Theseus and his Bull since they had made their debut so long ago. Patroclus had been privy to their arrival. The former king of Athens had arrived alone — his divine musculature threatening to burst forth from his skin, not as dark as Patroclus but not far off. His hair sat like strands of delicately placed sunlight, swept back as if by wind. He was beautiful, of which there was no doubt, but loathsome and brash in his attitudes. He was devoid of manners, having approached Patroclus once with the sneer of a self-assured youth. His rebuff of Theseus' challenge to a fight had left the man bewildered, spluttering in dismay until Patroclus had bid him farewell and departed. Later, the shades had whispered among themselves of a pact which had been made with the lord of the realm. A partner for the young king, a companion from life whom he had wished out of the depths of Tartarus. According to the shades, the bull's freedom had come only upon Theseus' ascension of the throne of Elysium — a fragile construction concocted by the gaggle of prideful old beggars among them, desperate to reinstate themselves in death as they had been in life. He had fought with a dogged determination, so the tale went, slaying and slaying again all who opposed him until his position was secured, at which point the bull was drawn forth to walk among men.

Something in the story had pricked at Patroclus' mind, the notion of a soul such as his own lifted at the request of another from the dark depths. According to his escort all those ages ago, that had been the reason for Patroclus' arrival in Elysium. An intercession on his behalf. But there had been a price, or so she had said. Yet what price had Patroclus paid? An un-life spent among dead kings and fallen warriors? An eternity alone? At least in Erebus there had been silence, darkness, peace. It stirred anger in him, that whomever had spoken for him had left him so, grasping at empty air for answers which swam beneath the impenetrable veil of time and memory lost. 

Always in his dreaming his mind returned to the same spaces — beaches, endless dunes rolling from horizon to horizon, bordered by the restless ocean. And always the other, the featureless face which drew him ever closer, the hands reaching for him, the body which lay against the image of his own.

Who were they, that nameless shade?

* * *

In Elysium, peace was a luxury seldom afforded. Patroclus was lucky. For the most part, he was left to his own devices, undisturbed by the vainglorious shades and their near-constant taunts to battle. He had cultivated an air of mystery with which he could cloak himself. The stories ranged in content — some days he was a forgotten warrior of the first ages of man, the most senior resident of Elysium; others, he was a philosopher, a prophet of the gods, granted the gift of paradise in exchange for his contributions to humanity. No matter what was believed, the cumulative effect meant that he was of little interest to those petty figures and their ceaseless fighting. He carried a weapon — all in Elysium were gifted with tools of their choice, should their desire for blood present itself — yet had seldom laid a hand on it, merely as a warning against those still foolish enough to challenge him. He had arrived with a spear — a relic from his life, given form once again in death. One day, in the throes of a shameful memory of violence and despair, he had awoken with a singular purpose, driving the speartip into the stone, shattering it irreperably. As the mists had gathered, preparing to undo his action, he had commanded them to halt, to let it remain as it was. It was by that forgotten spear that he now sat each day, contemplating the soft murmurings of the Lethe.

It was one such day — beneath the shade of those ever-fruiting trees, eyes fixated on the tumbling dance of a waterfall which had sprung up since his last visit — that his carefully managed peace was disturbed. It began as noise — a clangorous racket breaching the eastern walls of his enclosure. He turned slowly, eyes on the gates, watching for movement. The noise halted — the sounds of swordplay and pained howls growing silent as quickly as they had started up — and there was a beat of stillness before the door sunk into the ground, revealing the intruder. Patroclus rose instinctively, eyes trained on the figure, body still. He was a boy, at least in his appearance, lean and strong. His body was bloodied, dark hair matted with the glistening, starry ichor that ran through the veins of the Elysians, his stance slumped as he leaned on his sword — larger than his own body — for support. Patroclus eyed him wearily, understanding implicitly that this figure did not belong in Elysium. He straightened, eventually, taking a deep breath, before looking up, his eyes locking with Patroclus. There was a moment of stillness, before the sword was raised, grasped in both of his hands as he took up a fighting stance once again. Patroclus raised his hands calmly, palms splayed wide, bowing his head forward in acquiescence. 

"You needn't raise your sword against me, stranger. I do not wish to engage you in combat."

He saw the figure's eyes — one green, one scarlet — narrow in suspicion.

"I don't believe you," he called. His voice was brimming with youth, self-assured despite his misgivings.

Patroclus shrugged.

"I don't know what else to tell you. I have no interest in killing or being killed."

He watched the boy contemplate his words — could practically see the wheels of his mind turning over themselves — before he slumped once more, nodding.

"I-... Thank you."

Patroclus said nothing, watching him make his way towards the western gates, saw him inspect the glyphs above the doors, foreign to Patroclus' understanding, yet which seemed to bear meaning to his guest. Satisfied, or rather not, the boy turned, falling to sit by the rocks at the base of the waterfall, allowing the spray to collect in his hair, washing away the starry remains of his adversaries.

"You are not from this place, are you?" Patroclus asked, returning to his original seated position, no longer fearing the strike of the boy's blade. He lifted his head from the cool waters at the address, a grin forming at the sides of his mouth, far from the mirthless grimace of Patroclus' former escort.

"What gave me away?"

"The fact that you lowered your weapon after I made it clear I have no desire to fight you. I find the shades of this realm are as pugnacious as they are devoid of any humour or manners."

"I only understood a few of those words but I'm going to choose to believe you were complimenting me."

He couldn't help but laugh, a soft chuckle tinkling like music out of a mouth which after so long had forgotten what laughter felt like. The boy opened one eye to observe him, grinning right back.

"My name is Zagreus. What's yours?"

"Unnecessary for our conversation, I should think."

"That's a real mouthful."

"You're very funny, Zagreus. Although, I fear I must ask you what brings you here, for it is obvious you do not belong."

Zagreus sat up, back against the rocks, hair dripping onto his shoulders, and eyed Patroclus wearily. 

"I'm trying to escape."

"From Elysium?"

"From the underworld. I'm trying to find my mother."

Patroclus could hear it in the boy's words, the defiant, assured determination which betrayed the truth of his statement. It sent heat coursing through his middle, unlocking some private memory from within — a voice carrying that same weight, projected across a crowd of men, enraptured by the sound, enthralled by its power. That same voice lowered, speaking only to Patroclus of hillsides and groves and fields of wheat, just beyond the churning tide of war. He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable, and stood once more.

"You are an Olympian."

The statement left Patroclus' lips as if of its own accord, some universal truth unfettered by his thoughts. Zagreus nodded.

"Sort of. My father is the lord of the realm."

"You are the son of Lord Hades?"

Zagreus nodded again, curtly, the sound of the name causing a wincing twitch to pass over his features. Patroclus felt dread grow in the pit of his stomach. He pictured the lord of death barrelling through the fields, his dark shadow looming over Patroclus, demanding retribution for having aided in his son's escape. He swallowed, returning his gaze to Zagreus, who had stood.

"I fear you may have doomed my soul, young Zagreus."

Confusion coloured the boy's features, his head tilting, before recognition finally bloomed behind his eyes.

"I wouldn't worry about Father coming to torture you, Sir. He hasn't left his desk in millennia."

"I see."

"If anything, it would be his emissaries, but even then, I wouldn't worry. His chief torturer is currently floating in the Styx, to the best of my knowledge."

"I would imagine you had a hand in that?"

"Yes, and I'm sure she and her whip will be waiting for me the next time I see her."

At the mention of the whip, Patroclus' thoughts returned to the figure who had carried him out of Tartarus, the stone-faced woman and her torturous smile. He balked at the prospect of meeting her under less pleasant circumstances, feeling as though a lead weight had plummeted from his throat into the depths of his being. 

"I must ask that you leave me, Zagreus. I do not wish to become fodder for the house of the dead. My existence here has been peaceful, and I request that you do not disturb that peace."

"I-" he began, raising a hand as if to reach for Patroclus, before sighing and dropping it to his side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into this. For what it's worth, I don't think they would pursue you. You wouldn't be the first to have aided me in my journey. I apologize for intruding."

He turned to leave, Patroclus suddenly guilty at the drop in his shoulders. He grimaced at the twinge of sympathy that flared unwanted in the centre of his chest, reaching into his pack for another of Elysium's gifts.

"Hold on, stranger. Let me give you something."

Zagreus halted, half-turned on his heels, as Patroclus held out his hands.

"Take some of this," he offered, passing Zagreus a vial of some aetheric liquid — black as night, flecked with stars, "It's the essence of a hydra’s blood — or so I've been told. It will heal some of your wounds."

Zagreus accepted the drink with a nod, clasping Patroclus' fingers in his own in a gesture of solidarity, before setting off again. He watched him as he paused at the gates, before choosing the leftmost — bearing the sigil of a blue trident. Soon, the sounds of violence returned, accompanied by an echoing voice, which resounded through the fields as clear as day calling to Zagreus with all the bluster and bravado of any of the kings of Patroclus' realm. 

Quietly, Patroclus packed himself up, returning to the solitude of his abode, retiring to his garden until the fear which gripped him had abated.

At one point, glancing up from a bed of blooming hyacinths — each blossoming head the colour of ripened grapes, some mimicking the dappled blue sky of home — he spied a crumpled heap, floating down the Lethe as it passed beyond the boundary of his abode. As it approached, he inhaled sharply. It was the boy — body broken and twisted, stained red, recogniseable only by his mis-matched eyes, bulging unseeing from his destroyed face. Patroclus watched as he was washed away, swallowing his shock. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the sight of death — not least in his life, never mind in Elysium — but in that moment, he felt himself overcome by some unnameable sorrow. He ducked his head once more to the soil, conscious of the deep gouges his fingers had scored into the earth where his fists had clenched around it.

* * *

After such a time in Elysium, Patroclus understood implicitly that life and death were merely interchangeable states of being, between which one could flit seamlessly at will. As such, it was no surprise to him when Zagreus tumbled into his glade once again, some time after their previous encounter. It had been brief — a sheepish, embarrassed exchange of words, with Patroclus handing him yet another trinket to aid him in his journey. The whole exchange had left him feeling somewhat like a mother hen, clucking nervously over her charges.

Despite his prior request to be left alone, it seemed that the mechanism of the Fates had other designs for he and young Zagreus, who seemed to reappear at startlingly regular intervals, often bruised and beaten, dripping in fluids. It was unseemly, but Patroclus had to admit that the company made for a distinct change in pace. 

“I’m sorry I keep showing up,” Zagreus had begun, once, “I don’t know how much you understand of the geography of the place, but it sort of leads me in the same direction each time, more or less.”

The two of them were seated, Zagreus propped up against yet another of his varied arsenal of weaponry — a shield bearing the mark of, according to Zagreus, Lord Zeus of Olympus himself. The atmosphere had been still, the silence of the air broken only by Zagreus’ sudden exclamation at the appearance of a harmless butterfly — cornflower blue wings almost translucent in the sunlight. It had taken some coaxing from Patroclus for him to leave it, bewildered and amused by his obtuse reaction.

“How do you mean?” he had replied, passing Zagreus yet another of his infinite stores of Cyclops meat to distract him from the insectile terror flapping in his periphery.

“The glyphs above the gates, they guide me.”

There had been more, but most of it had evaded Patroclus’ understanding, and so he had merely nodded.

“And so, is there a glyph which tells you that I will be here?”

Zagreus smiled. 

“Yes.”

“And so you deliberately betray my wishes to be left alone on a regular basis?”

His smile faltered, sensing more than humour in Patroclus’ tone.

“I-... Yes, I do, I’m sorry.”

“I was joking, mostly. Much as I might prefer the silence, I must say you are a great deal more polite than the others who reside in Elysium.”

“It’s just… I enjoy it here, with you. The peace. It makes a nice change.”

“Peace was never something I knew in my mortal life, and so I do find myself seeking it almost exclusively in death.”

Zagreus nodded, tearing into the meat with a zeal that reminded Patroclus once again of that forgotten face from his past — enough to bring a quirking smile to his lips.

“Were you a great warrior in your life, dear Sir? I hear that is the requisite for residence in Elysium.”

Patroclus swallowed, his mood suddenly soured, tongue scraping the inside of his cheek. He forced himself into a grimacing smile, heaving his body up to stand, Zagreus following him, expression guilty.

“I think it’s time we called it a day, Zagreus. I have asked you repeatedly to respect my privacy, and yet still you insist. If our quiet arrangement mystifies you so, perhaps it would be unwise to continue.”

He watched hurt crest over Zagreus’ features, could hear the scolding voice in his mind imploring him to be kind to the child. He bowed his head and retrieved his shield, sliding his arm into the hold without meeting Patroclus’ eyes.

“I apologize. I will leave you.”

He turned, and departed without another word, leaving Patroclus slightly cold, wishing he had perhaps been kinder.

* * *

_ “You needn’t turn everything into an argument!” the voice said, anger flaring outwards from him like waves of crackling heat from a fire. _

_ “I am not responsible for the reactions of others! If they find my words objectionable, perhaps they should look beyond their own myopic visions to see my perspective.” _

_ Silence fell between them, the other shucking garments in a quiet simmering rage, unwilling to push things further. They bathed, separately. They ate in silence, their distance closed only briefly as food was passed along. It was only later, lying in their shared chambers, the night’s cool air carrying the scent of jasmine blossoming in the court gardens, that his hand found the other’s. _

_ “I am afraid,” he admitted, “I know the stories, I know your place within them, your role to play. This war will be the end of you.” _

_ “We write our own stories, Patroclus. Perhaps ours shan’t end in sorrow.” _

_ “You speak as though your words alone might defy the Fates.” _

_ “Perhaps they will.” _

* * *

Zagreus didn't return for some time. At first, Patroclus had been glad — free once more to exist quietly on his own terms, to pass his eternity as he had wished, in solitude. Yet, as time wore on, and the endless days laid themselves at his feet, he began to miss those exuberant intrusions, Zagreus' distinctly cheerful disposition, despite his extraordinary circumstances. He still heard him, tearing his way through Elysium on a regular basis, at times coming close to Patroclus' chambers, yet always turning away at the last moments. Word had gotten out of his multiple defeats of Theseus and the Bull, sending rippling waves of gossip throughout the land, quickly dispelled by the braggart king's assurances that the boy was merely a foul demon summoned by outside forces to disrupt the rigid hierarchy of Elysian life. In other words, Theseus had deftly absorbed Zagreus into his own mythology — the perfect heel to the young king's golden narrative. With every slaughter — Theseus’ pained groans as the Bull fell to Zagreus’ sword, or the howled laments of the Bull himself rocking the walls of Patroclus' enclosure, many chambers away, calling for his fallen King — the crowd grew paradoxically more intoxicated with Theseus, their cheers ever louder as he reappeared for his next fight. For Zagreus' own part, his body could still be seen floating in the Lethe on occasion, often punctured by some cruel spear, his face caught in a grimace somewhere between disappointment and shock.

Despite his failure to convince the shades of Elysium of Theseus' inadequacies, Patroclus was distinctly aware of the effect that young Zagreus was having on the psyche of the Golden King — as his fan club had named him. Once, clipping the tender stems of the herbs sprouting in between his flowering plants lest they begin to jostle one another for primacy, the humming ambience of Patroclus' home had been disturbed by the nearing sound of two pairs of stomping feet. Rising from his kneeling position in the dirt, he spotted them — the sunshine-haired youth and his hulking companion, whose horns bracketed the false sun where he stood over the other, who sulked at the bank of the Lethe. The Bull stood with his hands on his hips, the muscles of his broad back practically glowing in the light. Periodically, his tail would swish, swatting away insects where they crept from the tall rushes up towards the hem of his peplum. 

"Asterius," he had begun, addressing the Bull — he hadn't been aware the Minotaur possessed a name. "The things he said, that…  _ blackguard _ , they… they weren't true, right?"

Even from so far away, Patroclus could hear Asterius' snorting reply, his phrases curt, words thick and difficult when spoken through a mouth not built to articulate them. 

"No. You know this, King."

"Then why do you question me so? Until that demon's appearance, you never found fault in our training, our strategies. And yet now upon his words I find you enthralled, and suddenly you are dissatisfied with my performance. What has changed?"

Patroclus began to feel as though he was intruding upon something he wasn't supposed to see. 

"This is… not true, King."

"Do you deny your dissatisfaction?"

He watched Asterius lean back as if struck, his bovine ears twitching, his broad lip pulling back over his teeth in a snarl. 

"I am diss-" in his anger, his tongue stumbled over the phonemes. He paused and continued, "I am unhappy with our defeats. That is all. I believe you are being unreasonable."

"Unreasonable?" Theseus replied, voice rising to a shout, standing to confront Asterius, who took an uneasy step backwards. "How dare you! You-"

Theseus swallowed his words, presumably at the sight of Asterius' face, which was out of Patroclus' view. He could see the bull flex his arms, hands balling into fists at his sides, stance widening.

"Perhaps it is best if we train separately for a while, King. I do not wish for you to say something you might regret."

With that, Asterius had stomped off, hooves dragging up dirt behind him, pausing only to let the gates open before him. Theseus watched him leave, face pained. As the bronze of the gate swung back into place with a resounding clang, Theseus became suddenly aware of Patroclus' presence, his gardening tools in hand, his face unreadable.

"Leave me, shade! Your king desires privacy at this moment!"

Patroclus cleared his throat, gesturing to his plants, to the modest home behind him.

"This is my residency. And I'm not a shade."

He thought for a moment that Theseus might lunge at him. He wasn't carrying his spear, but Patroclus had no delusion over the outcome of a fistfight between them both. He watched the king contemplate his options, before he sighed, waving him off.

"I… apologize. Please, just allow me a few moments. I will leave you after."

Patroclus nodded, turning back inside the shade of his room, gently washing soil from beneath his nails. 

Quietly, barely audible over the splashing flow of the Lethe, he thought he could hear crying.

* * *

_ "Do you ever dream about me?" _

_ "Not really. Sorry," he added, unable to see the look of dismay that fell over Patroclus' features, yet aware of the halting of his ministrations, "I don't dream of very much other than the war, anymore. Each night, I find myself beset by maps, strategies, prophecies, body counts. Even in sleep I cannot escape the sneering faces of those so-called kings outside. Dreaming of you would be preferable; yet, nothing." _

_ Patroclus sighed, continuing to run the brush through those golden locks, dragging out knots perhaps more roughly than was necessary — each slight wincing grimace indescribably humourous to him. His lover, born of the gods, the greatest hero of his age, teary-eyed from a comb. _

_ He placed a kiss on the back of his neck, pausing to breathe in the scent of his skin — sun-baked clay suffused with the oils of crushed flowers, mingling with the uncertain whisper of sea salt.  _

_ "Maybe I should sleep closer to you," he offered, trailing a finger down his bare back, "Perhaps it might entice your mind to think of me." _

_ The other met his insinuations with a huffed laugh. _

_ "You couldn't sleep any more closely to me than if you crawled into my skin." _

_ "I've thought about it," he replied, not sounding unserious. "I thought at least then I might be able to be with you always." _

_ "You  _ are _ with me always, whether in body or in soul, you know that.” _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you whenever, bye!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zagreus and Patroclus discuss relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom, I turn every head when I walk in the room  
> Pretty in real life, hit my pics with the zoom  
> A ten when they rate her like tomb  
> Elevator to the penthouse, we ain't stoppin' anytime soon
> 
> Hi yes new chapter there you go you're welcome.

_"Sometimes I wonder if you might benefit from granting others the same leniency you seem to grant me."_

_Patroclus sighed — the same old conversation repeating itself once more. He continued with his pounding — the granite head of his pestle grinding his gathered herbs into yet another poultice for the other's aching wounds._

_"You chastise me for picking verbal fights with the ignorants who populate our lives, and yet I say nothing over your insatiable desire to self-annihilate."_

_The other grimaced, partly from the stinging pain in his side as he shifted on his cot._

_"Point taken."_

_"Indeed, you did take his point, several times in fact, although none in your vital areas, thankfully. All the gifts of the gods and not one thought to grant you humility, or a sense of tact."_

_"Patroclus-"_

_"Quiet. You know my feelings. Have I not made them clear?"_

_There was silence as the grinding stopped, as the contents of the mortar were tipped into a brass bowl of oil, swirled gently by Patroclus' nimble fingers. The mixture was brought to the other's skin, Patroclus wincing in sympathy as he hissed through his teeth._

_"I'm sorry, my love, I know it is painful."_

_"Thank you."_

_He said nothing more, letting the night and the heat from their bodies fill the space between their words._

* * *

Time passed, and Patroclus stewed in his emotions — still reckoning with his foul manner regarding young Zagreus and his innocent-minded questions. He had been harsh, far too harsh in his rebuke. It was obvious that the boy sought companionship, searching Patroclus for that which had been denied him by his fellows in the depths. He hadn't reappeared. There had been moments where his signature cacophony of metal and howling death-groans would breach the walls of Patroclus' enclosure, but in the silence that followed, he would hear only the boy's footsteps as he inevitably chose another path. 

Patroclus had, as always, gotten what he had desired, only to find it not to his liking in the end.

One such day, laid out on his back by the Lethe, allowing his mind to empty out to the sound of its flow, as if his thoughts might be carried away along the shifting surface, he became aware of Zagreus' approach, the far gate rattling in its frame. Yet, something stood out to Patroclus, something disturbing the almost rehearsed quality to Zagreus' rampage. It reminded him of a bell, almost — a deep intoning sound, hollow and portentous, followed by a nauseous wave of apprehension that churned in Patroclus' gut. Despite his nature, he felt the familiar tug of primal fear, settling within him — the inexorable approach of death. The feeling remained, weighing heavily upon him, even as silence fell once more. Listening closely, he could hear voices, indistinct, evidently in the midst of some dispute. Eventually, the sensation of lead lifted from him, and the gate to his chamber opened.

He watched him stumble in — hunched over himself, breathing hard, yet bearing fewer signs of injury than usual. He straightened, bracing himself to continue his fight, his face pinched against tears which even then threatened to spill over. He spied Patroclus, who had sat up, watching him closely, and sighed, running a hand across his features.

"Apologies once more, Sir. I wasn't paying attention to my path. I won't impose upon you."

He made to continue across the chamber, halted by Patroclus' outstretched arm, fingers mere inches from his tattered tunic.

"I… would prefer if you would stay, young Zagreus. I would like to speak to you."

Zagreus nodded, swiping at his eyes, folding himself to the ground across from Patroclus, chin resting on the heel of his palm, eyes on the stones beneath them.

"I fear I must apologize to you, Zagreus, for my conduct in our last meeting. While I may value my privacy, it shouldn't come at such a price as to alienate those who would honour me with their time. I am truly sorry."

A tear streaked down Zagreus' cheek, accompanied by a quiver in his lip which made Patroclus' mouth go dry in discomfort.

"Thank you, Sir. I didn't mean to offend you...it's just, well… I seem to have a habit of disrespecting those who show me kindness."

"Forgive me if I am repeating your own sins back to you, but I must ask — are you okay, dear boy?"

Zagreus shook his head.

"I take it you heard what went on back there?" he asked, gesturing vaguely behind him towards the chamber from which he had arrived.

"Somewhat. I gathered someone else was in there with you, someone who I must say filled me with naught but dread."

Zagreus couldn't help but laugh, a rueful, teary sound.

"Yes, Thanatos does have that effect on mortals."

Patroclus' eyes widened.

"You were visited by Death?"

"Not for the first time, either. He and I are- were… friends, once."

Patroclus reeled, although he thought that perhaps it should not surprise him that Death himself would inhabit the House of Hades.

"And you have grown apart?"

Zagreus shook his head, pitching himself backwards to lay flat upon the soil, his arms spread wide, fingers laced into the grass. He stared up at the firmament, eyes on the distant, illusory clouds of vapor, high above them.

"I didn't tell him, when I tried to escape. I wanted to leave it all behind, including him. He… he didn't take it very well. I believed that I understood him, that whatever we had between us was over, and that he wouldn't have missed me."

"But you were mistaken."

"I am an awful person, and a terrible friend."

"And a poor swordsman, I take it, given that you never seem to carry yours with you anymore!"

Zagreus groaned, attempting to shift his bow out of sight with his foot.

"It was far too heavy. I looked ridiculous! Achilles told me I ought to practice more with the spear, but Coronacht seems to call to me whenever I-"

Zagreus had noticed it, the sudden intake of breath at the name, the imperceptible quake which rattled Patroclus' body where he sat. He rose onto his elbows, eyes fixed on the other man, whose face had pulled in slightly, deep in thought.

"That name… I feel as though I recognize it."

"Hmm? Perhaps you do, Achilles was quite the famed hero before he came to the House, I hear!"

Patroclus rose, Zagreus left sprawled at his feet. He made his way to the statue, at the other end of the glade, steadying himself with a hand placed gently on one of the figure's gargantuan legs, craning his neck skyward to observe its face — usually crumbling to the point of anonymity. As his eyes reached those of the unseeing marble above him, his grip clawed into the stone, his mouth began trembling with words barely audible even to himself. The statue's face had returned — the whole figure restored, whatever subconscious will of Patroclus which had halted its repair having been finally released. The features were angular, the sharp, jutting chin, the plane of the cheek, all as he remembered. Missing only was the spark behind the eyes, the divine drive for glory that burned in every fiber of his being while he had been alive. 

The world spun, with Patroclus rooted to the spot, Zagreus behind him having risen to his feet, his whole countenance fearing that another boundary had been crossed.

"Sir… is everything alright? I didn't mean to-" Zagreus trailed off, unsure as to what exactly it was that he had done.

Patroclus turned to him sharply.

"Have you told him of me, of our meetings?"

Zagreus shook his head.

"It would be difficult to do so, given that I don't even know your name, Sir."

Patroclus softened, suddenly guilty once more. He held his palm out towards Zagreus, holding his gaze firmly.

"My name is Patroclus, young Zagreus."

They shook hands, Zagreus smiling, his good humour restored.

"It is very nice to meet you formally, Patroclus."

He nodded, glancing uneasily over his shoulder, in the direction of home.

"Zagreus, I must leave you. There are private matters to which I must attend, I am sorry. I would ask that you do not inform Achilles of our dealings together. Can you do this for me, please?"

Zagreus nodded.

"I will honour your word, Sir. I promise."

Zagreus affixed him with another smile, blinding in its earnestness, and Patroclus returned it gladly, passing him yet another of his unwanted gifts.

"Please, feel free to return to me, whenever you might desire."

He didn't give Zagreus a chance to respond, quickly departing with a flourish of his cloak, his head sunken towards his chest, his mutterings audible even as he neared the far gates.

It was only within the solitude of his abode that Patroclus released the flood of his emotions, letting his tears spill forth into his hands, fingers wound tightly into his own hair. Softly, in a voice rendered unsteady by sobs, he spoke to the aether.

"So it was you, my love, who doomed me to this eternity of solitude. Even in death, the cruelty of your devotion knows no bounds."

* * *

_"Would you be mine forever, Pat?"_

_They were sat upon a hillside in the countryside of their youth — at the time seeming as though they were as high as Olympus itself. Beneath them the grass teemed with life — winged insects, translucent against the sky, taking flight against their probing, inquisitive hands. The sun bore down upon them, setting the young Achilles alight, his form radiant. He watched Patroclus with eyes hooded, nail worrying his bottom lip, his anxious demeanour so far from his wild, exuberant nature._

_Patroclus turned to meet his gaze, breathing deep the scent of the grass, of the ocean beyond their hillside, of the very heat of the air itself._

_"There is no forever, Achilles. There's only here, and now."_

_He watched the other's brow furrow — his argumentative streak stirring that same pleasing heat in the core of Patroclus' body._

_"You know as well as I that there will be a place in the beyond for both of us, Patroclus. I," he went on, gesturing to himself with a hand — delicate, golden fingers, already calloused from mock-war — eyes fluttered closed in self-adulation, "Will be the greatest warrior of our age, and you, my stoic companion, ever at my side."_

_Patroclus snorted, one of Achilles' eyes opening to meet him with a grin. They leaned in, lips meeting, Patroclus laying himself closer — far enough apart to claim ignorance should they be discovered, yet still within the circle of his beloved's arms._

_"You should have been a politician, given how easily you seem to believe your own fanciful tales."_

_Achilles laughed along with him, but the sound was tempered by some quiet contemplation, the fingers of one hand coming down over Patroclus' face, tracing the lines across the young man's hairless jaw. He closed his eyes to the sensation, letting himself drift to the edge of sleep, heart filled with peace at the reassuring presence of the demigod at his side._

_Right as his mind tipped into dreaming oblivion, he could hear his voice, whispered as a vow._

_"I will never leave your side, my love."_

* * *

_His soul was collected by the God of War himself, lips curled upwards by a curious mixture of pride and mirth._

_"Of all the warriors I have taken from this place, yours is the only soul which has given me pause. Who are you, mortal?"_

_His voice rang cacophonous in Patroclus' senses, his words carried upon a wave of battle cries, the echoing slam of bronze and iron, the horns of slaughter. Patroclus had stared unbelieving into his eyes — burning with visions of sacked cities and broken bodies — and swallowed his fear._

_"I am Patroclus, companion to the warrior Achilles."_

_"He will die here, you are aware?"_

_"I am. I have warned him against his folly, but I am but one man — the Fates are not mine to defy."_

_"You are remarkable, boy," Ares whispered, as he and Patroclus began their journey to the realm of the dead. "You stand before the Olympian of War, and yet you tremble not. Others have begged me to return them to the field, to aid their compatriots once more. They beseech me to turn the tide in their favour, as if my power alone might, as you say, defy the very Fates and their designs. But not you. Why?"_

_They had already arrived at the mouth of the Styx — the nondescript fracture in the crust of the Earth where the realms of the living and the dead met — the journey passing in the blink of an eye._

_"I have known my fate from the moment I Iaid eyes upon my beloved, Lord Ares. As it was foretold that he would fall, so too would I fall with him."_

_"And still you remained," he replied, nodding, grin evening out into something close to bewilderment. "My sister's influence remains ever potent, I see."_

_"Will I see him again?"_

_Ares shrugged, armour rattling hollow in the dead of night._

_"I would not presume to know. Perhaps the Lord of the Dead might take pity on you, although I wouldn't expect charity from him."_

_"I understand. Thank you for your companionship in this time, Lord Ares."_

_"I wasn't supposed to be the one to collect you. Hermes was on track, but I volunteered. You intrigued me. Your aura, it was not one of a warrior, and yet there you were, armoured and roaring with bloodlust, like all the others. And in meeting you, you are unphased by divinity — bored, even. You are an astounding creature, all things considered."_

_"I shall choose to interpret that favorably."_

_Ares chose not to respond, merely bowing slightly, and disappearing, leaving behind only the distant sound of chariots, and the smell of smoke and blood._

_Patroclus turned, and entered the cavern of the Styx._

* * *

Once Achilles' name returned, Patroclus' memories began to flood back to him. The porous gaps — faces forgotten, narratives cut short — filled themselves in, the tapestry of his life weaving itself anew in his mind. With ease, he could recall each night in the Trojan camps — the endless, sleepless solitude, awaiting Achilles' return from the field, fearing that each moment of battle could be his last. He could picture youthful afternoons passed in one another's arms, surrounded by the divine pastoral serenity of their homes, bathed in sunlight, bodies ever close.

Existence in Elysium had been lonely, but never before had it been so painful.

Zagreus returned, shortly after his fateful conversation, eyeing Patroclus guiltily, brandishing as he drew close a vial of some glowing liquid.

"Sir," he began, "I wish for you to have this. My apology for the distress I might have caused you in the past."

Patroclus smiled, softening at his boyish nerves, the way his arm jutted out towards him, practically vibrating where he held the fragile glass. He accepted it with a nod, sniffing at the honeyed substance within.

"Thank you, Zagreus, I appreciate your thought. What is it, if I may ask?"

"Nectar!" he replied, brightly, pleased at Patroclus' acceptance — _Oh how soft his features are._

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"I was led to believe this was contraband outside of Elysium, dear boy. How did you obtain it?"

Zagreus reddened, ruffling his hair at Patroclus' admonishing tone.

"It's all over the place in the realm — Father is too busy to police it. I take it where I can get it. I like to give it out to those who have been kind to me, as a thank you. It won't ever make up for my transgressions but perhaps it might make a start."

"You are a remarkably conscientious boy, I must say. Here," he added, reaching to the ground at his side, where his shattered spear lay embedded in the stone. He willed the shards to coalesce, forming once again into a jagged, cracked whole. He passed the fragment to Zagreus, who stared at it, wide-eyed.

"Sir, I-... Thank you."

"My spear did little to serve me in my life, but perhaps it may aid you where it failed me."

They were quiet then, as Zagreus affixed the speartip to his tunic. He returned his eyes to Patroclus' face, steadying himself.

"He spoke of you, to me."

Patroclus stiffened, closing his eyes as if struck.

"Zagreus, I asked you-"

"I didn't tell him! I promise. We were talking, and I told him about my struggles, with Thanatos. He spoke of someone with whom he had been close, in his life, and warned me against trying to pressure someone into feelings which they might not be ready to process."

"And you assume he meant me?"

"He spoke your name freely, and with reverence, Sir."

Patroclus did his best to swallow his shock, to remain composed in front of Zagreus despite the bile that raised in his throat.

"I see. Well, Zagreus, I don't know what I might tell you. Yes, we were close in our lives, but that is history."

"He said he made a grave mistake, with you."

"Zagreus, please."

"I want to help."

Patroclus breathed, reaching for Zagreus, who had grown hunched, sniffling where he stood. Patroclus, surprising himself, pulled him close, a hand splayed wide against his face.

"Our fates are our own, boy. We cannot defy them any more readily than we might fight the sky, or the earth itself."

He held Zagreus for some time, breathing in the scent of death which lingered around him, cold and earthy. Zagreus held him in return, two hands fisted in his robes, heaving sighs to calm himself.

They parted, leaving Patroclus to collect himself, lest he dissolve in the memory of his hurt.

* * *

Zagreus continued to share his spoils with Patroclus, passing him Nectar frequently as he passed through his glade, often pausing to speak with him for some time before continuing ahead into the coliseum to face Theseus and Asterius. Frequently, their topics would turn to the others whom Zagreus had met on his journeys — the nymph Eurydice, of whom Patroclus had heard the myths, separated from her once beloved by his fated act of ignorant defiance.

"She was quite cold on him, when I first met her," Zagreus explained, "She blamed him, naturally, for building up her hopes, only to shatter them in his failure to follow my Father's orders. But, I feel as though it was all ordained from the start, don't you? Father knew Orpheus would fail, and let him go anyway. It's cruel!"

Patroclus shrugged. Cruel, yes, but fair. Parameters were set, and thus defied, were revoked. It was simple. 

"No one escapes death, young Zagreus, we understand this. Even you, who claim to have breached the surface, return here, drawn back by the call of the Styx. Who are you to say that this is cruel?"

"You don't understand. Father does this constantly — he dangles something over your head, and when you fail to meet his expectations, he traps you within the bounds of an agreement from which you'll never escape. Orpheus sings in our court now, separated from Eurydice even though they both reside in Hades. Sisyphus labours under his rock, Father unable to forgive his petty transgression, even all these centuries on. Even Achilles, he-"

Zagreus cut himself off, swallowing his words before they could emerge out into the world and sour yet another afternoon with Patroclus. 

"What contract has Achilles found himself tied to?" he asked, Zagreus eyeing him warily. Patroclus knew the answer, of course, he had been told as much by the Fury.

"He traded places with someone. A friend from his life; someone he loved. That they might live in Elysium while he… Oh. It's you. You're…"

"Yes. I am."

"He… I shouldn't say."

"You have already said so much, Zagreus, why stop now?"

Patroclus was surprised at himself, at his eagerness to discover whatever it was which plagued the boy's mind, whatever truth regarding his and Achilles' situation was so eager to spill forth.

"He knows I speak to you, Sir. He deduced it from my description of our interactions."

"I see."

He wasn't hurt. Part of him was excited to know that he lived on in his beloved's mind, even if only in memory.

"He suspects that you would have sundered your memory, by drinking of the Lethe. I didn't tell him whether you had, or not, it didn't seem my place."

"Perhaps it is best if he believes so."

"But, Sir, if he knew, perhaps he could speak with Father, could renegotiate! I could speak on your behalf."

"There is no point, dear Zagreus. I would not risk your Father's retribution laid at the feet of my Achilles. Let him believe I am just another forgotten shade. Let me live in his memory, and he in mine."

"I won't," Zagreus replied, defiant. He stood, fists clenched, looking down upon Patroclus' face, who watched him impassively. The statue of Achilles loomed behind him, Zagreus the image of his tutor, bearing that same infernal countenance — the hubristic belief that he alone might rearrange the heavens in his favour.

"Zagreus…"

"I won't! This cruelty ends with me! I know the chambers where the contracts are kept, I will put forward a motion to revoke them. Father requires that everything be done by the books, and so it will be. He will have no recourse to defy my actions if I use his systems against him."

Patroclus winced at his tone, shaking his head.

"You are a willful child, I must say. You would damn yourself to the very pits of Tartarus were you a mortal, I fear."

"I've fought my way out of Tartarus more times than I can remember, Patroclus. I will make things right."

"Do not endanger yourself on my behalf, Zagreus, I beg you. Consider Achilles, the peril into which you might cast him should your Father take umbrage with your methods. Please, I ask that you consider your actions carefully."

Patroclus watched him deflate, saw as some of the spirit left him, nodding gently at Patroclus' words, embarrassed as an admonished child.

"I will, I will, I promise. But I will make things right, for you and Achilles. This isn't fair, and it isn't just."

Patroclus handed him another elixir — foggy with deathly whispers — reaching to hold him by the arm, steadying their gazes together.

"I believe you said to me once that you believed yourself to be an awful person, Zagreus. I believe you were mistaken, in that regard, dear boy. Although perhaps you are brash and reckless in your actions, they come from a good place."

"You sound like him," Zagreus replied, with a fond smile.

"Anything he might have taught you which lay outside the realm of swordplay and drunken revelry, I assure you he learned from me."

"Was he-" Zagreus began, faltering as Patroclus shook his head.

"More than you'll ever know, Zagreus."

They laughed, parting ways amicably, Patroclus returning to the shade of his home, allowing his thoughts to decompress in the cool shade.

He wondered about freedom, about the possibility that Zagreus could make good on his word, and bring Achilles back to him. 

What would they say?

What could they say?

* * *

_"Patroclus."_

_His name spoken softly, drawing him away from his thoughts, his endless stream of anxious, burrowing thoughts. He had been staring into the last embers of the fire for hours, awaiting news of the latest assault upon the Trojans. The sounds of battle had long since ceased, the night carrying only the voices of the insects and the gulls who feasted upon them, skittering and calling into the dark._

_Achilles stood, still clad in his armour, his body rigid from exhaustion and the lingering thrill of the fight. Patroclus approached him, hands wavering with words unspoken, reaching beneath the rim of his helmet to trace the outline of his lips._

_"I thought perhaps you wouldn't make it back to me this time."_

_"I will return to you no matter what, my love. How many times must I tell you?"_

_Patroclus smiled, leaning back, taking the helmet with him._

_"Disrobe, I will prepare a bath for you."_

_"Please, I'm exhausted, all I want is to sleep."_

_"Achilles, you are also drenched in gore. You reek of death. I will not have you sully our bedding with the blood of other men."_

_Achilles whined — an altogether childish sound, issuing forth from the body of a grown, hardened warrior — but complied, sinking some while later into a pool of just-heated water. At the moon's zenith, shining strong enough to penetrate the layers of their tenting, Patroclus washed his body. Achilles watched him, each slow, swiping motion as his hands cleared away the putrefying matter, revealing his glory once more._

_"I love you, Achilles. More than anything in this world, I love you."_

_Achilles reached for him, one hand dripping into his beard, lips pressed to his ear._

_"I will never be able to express my love to you in words, Pat. I would give up all the spoils of paradise just to be with you, I mean it."_

Evidently, he had meant it, although not in the way he had expected.

* * *

Zagreus returned with regularity following their discussion, yet never again broached the subject of Achilles' contract. Patroclus assumed he had heeded his warning, and abandoned the idea altogether, for the better of all involved. He continued to thrust Nectar upon him, which Patroclus accepted, yet never drank, merely allowing the bottles to collect in his residency.

"How are things progressing with your lover, Zagreus?"

He watched the boy redden at the phrase, uneasy at its implications. He shrugged, tearing grass where it lay between his knees.

"They're okay, I suppose. He asked me if I would be his, for real."

"And you said yes?"

"Naturally."

"Then why do you seem so down, Zagreus?"

He sighed, laying himself back, wincing only slightly as another butterfly took wing right by his head. He watched it as it ascended, a flickering disc of yellow paper, caught on the breeze.

"I'm afraid I'll disappoint him again, Sir."

"You know, Achilles spoke to me once about fear."

Zagreus turned his head to watch Patroclus as he spoke, the other man leaning back on his hands, face tilted towards the sky and eyes closed.

"What did he say?"

"I had expressed my misgivings regarding the war. I told him of my fears, that it would spell doom for him, that he would die on that battlefield, and that we would never see home again. He told me that my fear was justified, that I was probably right, and that to live pragmatically would mean abandoning the war, and retiring at my side somewhere in the country, among the plants and the trees and the animals. But, he said, to defy fear, to defy those fated futures to which we are chained, to risk it all on a chance at glory — that was what he was born to do."

"Wow."

"Yes, it was a very impressive speech — I have edited most of it out. There were many expletives and some colourful imagery which I believe he may have owed to his ingestion of enough wine to kill at least ten men. Still, the sentiment remains — fear may only hold you back if you allow it. To stand in the face of fear and hold your ground is the mark of a true hero."

"Perhaps he was right."

Patroclus scoffed.

"Are you joking? Of course he wasn't! He died in that war, just like how many countless others, and for what? The pride and glory of a cadre of old power-mongering fools, glutting their egos on the blood of the nameless, forgotten youths who threw themselves beneath the wheels of Trojan chariots for the false promise of riches and fame beyond the Earth? Where are those soldiers now, Zagreus? They reside in Tartarus and Asphodel with the rest of the pitiless shades who leave the realm of the living. 'Risk it all', he told me. Well," he said, gesturing at the lonely field around them, "This is what he risked his life for — an eternity swabbing the floors of the House of the Dead while I linger alone in this blasted wasteland."

He had stood at some point during his tirade, Zagreus still lying below, shielding his face from the sun which glared from behind Patroclus' head.

"I'm not sure exactly how to take that, as it pertains to my relationship, I'm afraid."

Patroclus fell in on himself, raising his palms to the sky in defeat. He laughed ruefully, allowing himself to return to the ground, an arm over his eyes, another flat against the grass.

"I'm sorry, Zagreus. The centuries have done little to dull the sting of my loneliness."

"I understand. But, you know, I have been thinking about risks, lately. A friend asked something of me, something which could have had disastrous consequences, should it have gone wrong."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I told Orpheus that I had located the chamber in which my Father kept his contract. He was quite astounded by the news — I think he had deluded himself into believing that the contract didn't exist, that he was merely bound to the House by the threat of violence alone."

Patroclus nodded, shifting to his front, meeting Zagreus' eyes finally, his own rimmed red.

"And he asked me, if it were possible that I could intercede on his behalf, to perhaps alter the terms of his agreement, that he might spend his time off in Asphodel, in the home of his beloved. I told you about her, didn't I? Her original disdain for him, I believe it was a shield, to protect her heart from further pain. I went to ask her for her permission, and she seemed warm to the idea, and so I did."

Patroclus swallowed against his dry mouth, feeling his stomach grow heavy and cold once again.

"And?"

"It worked! Mother Nyx showed me where I could find the scroll, and I simply put in a work order with the House to alter the contract. It came to Father's desk pre-approved, as the original term specified a particular timeframe for Orpheus' time with us, which had elapsed — several times over, in fact."

"So that was it? The great poet himself is free to roam your Father's realm, to return to his beloved once more?"

Zagreus nodded brightly, his earnest disposition returning where the shadow of Patroclus' outburst had clouded it.

"Indeed. And his manner has much improved since, I must say! Even Father seems to have noticed."

"I see."

"So," he said, rising, extending a hand to Patroclus, who took it, heaving himself up in a tangle of robes and shredded grass, "Do I have your permission?"

"My permission to what?"

Zagreus scoffed, which only added to the pounding sensation in his core, mimicking his long-gone heart.

"To consult Achilles on the status of his contract with Father, and to see if I can grant him the same freedoms as Orpheus."

Patroclus' ears filled with a buzzing whine, his face growing hot, tongue heavy in his parched mouth.

"I don't know, Zagreus… I-"

"What happened to risking it all, Patroclus? What have you got to lose?"

He closed his eyes, and sighed.

"Please."

"Patroclus-"

"Tell him. Tell him to risk it all, then, if you must."

Zagreus broke out into a smile as wide as the berth of his arms, which Patroclus found flung around his shoulders, his own arms dangling limply at his sides.

* * *

"You infuriate me."

"Is that not why you stay?"

* * *

Patroclus had committed to spending the day alone in his garden. As pleasant as Zagreus' company was, he had begun to neglect his horticultural duties, grimacing as he inspected his overgrown roses, which had swallowed several of his less assertive flowering shrubs.

"Greedy, greedy," he intoned, pruning away the unruly stems, gathering them at his side. They would sit for a while in a bowl by the southern window, which caught the bulk of the day's light. With any luck, their perfume would spread throughout, clearing the usual scent of lavender and olive blossom which sat heavy in the Elysian air. 

He grimaced at the sound of the sigil as it appeared, some distance from the paltry wooden fence he had placed around his home — a lingering sentiment of ownership held over from his life. It wasn't a foreign sound to Patroclus, he was well aware of the mechanisms through which the custodians of the realm traversed its vast planes. As such, he didn't look up, not wishing to attract the notice of the Furies, or whomever of the House had deigned to visit Elysium that day. 

It was only at the sound of the voice — the only voice he could recall from his living memories, the only voice he would never tire of hearing, the only voice which could render the simple syllables of his name as a song in their own right — that he rose, knuckles white where they gripped his tools.

There he stood — robed in flowing emerald fabric, spear at his side gleaming bronze in the light, his body exactly as Patroclus remembered, wrought from stone as if by the hands of the gods themselves.

They took one another in, Patroclus unable to speak, hearing the other's sigh.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, as if there was ever any potential he might have forgotten, as if Patroclus was capable of discarding the memory of the only man he had ever loved.

"I do."

He watched Achilles' eyes fall shut in reverence, or thanks.

"Might you embrace me, perhaps?"

"Not yet."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles and Patroclus reconcile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes hello it's me, it's 1am, it's done, it's over.
> 
> Last chapter, and there's some sexy stuff towards the end so if you're sensitive, or underage, feel free to skip it.
> 
> Otherwise, thanks for reading! I'll see you soon with the rest of the Hades series, whenever I get around to it.

"Patroclus…"

He stood firm, watching Achilles' face crease in frustration, brows pulling together, eyes narrowing, fist clenched around the shaft of his spear. Patroclus brought his arms up around his chest, adopting as near a pose of dour severity as he could muster, desperately wrangling his own features into an impassive mask, all to disguise the elation which ripped through his body, imploring him to cast off his pride and embrace the other half of his soul.

"Why did you do it?"

Achilles sighed, crestfallen and hurt, and splayed his palms.

"You already know why, surely?"

Patroclus shook his head.

"I want to hear it from you. I tire of having our story defined by others. How many different voices have told me of your actions, leaving out whatever details suited their purposes? No, Achilles, I wish to hear your truth."

He straightened, nodding, squaring his shoulders, swallowing his hurt.

"Right, you're not wrong, I suppose."

"So begin."

He opened his mouth to speak, eyes fixated on another butterfly, fluttering in-between the petals of Patroclus' clipped roses, and closed it again. There was a harsh exhale through his nose, face rising, tears in his eyes.

"Please, before I begin, just…"

Patroclus cut him off, the answer already brimming on his lips.

"Of course I do. Now, please."

They shared a smile, Achilles drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.

"After you died, I was… inconsolable."

"I have heard stories from shades that you refused the funeral pyre for several days, that you laid with my body in your grief, even as the rot set in."

"All true. I was hollowed out eventually, beset by the cold reality that you were gone, and so too was my reason to continue in that folly of war. My intention always had been glory — to have my name written among those heroes who came before us, great Hercules and Perseus, the parade of gilded divinities and their godly accomplishments. Without you, I saw those intentions for what they truly were — selfish delusions of grandeur. You were right, Patroclus, you always had been. That war was a pointless affair, bloody revenge for a slight against an old, senile king and his power-hungry ambitions."

He had taken a few steps forward in his speaking, close enough that Patroclus could discern each golden curl of hair as it fell about his shoulders. His body was as he remembered, still rippling with muscle, barely contained by his robes and tunic, youthful in his countenance, but matured somehow, as if the man within had grown, while the body had remained as was.

"I see, and all it took was my death for you to understand what I had been telling you for years."

Achilles grimaced, face creased in a plea of mercy.

"Pat-"

"Go on. Continue your story."

"Well, I died. Shot through the foot with an arrow. It was actually quite a relief to be done with it all, I must say. I anticipated that I would see you within moments, and our eternity might begin. Yet, when I arrived at the mouth of the Styx, and entered Lord Hades' realm, I was informed of your situation."

"Who told you?"

"Lord Hades himself. Apparently, he had been awaiting my presence — the hero who had sent so many to his realm. I asked after you, if I would see you, and he told me that it was impossible, that you had been cast into Tartarus with all the other souls undeserving of paradise. Undeserving," he spat, laughing without humour at the thought of it, "As if I, or any other of those hounds of slaughter should have been rewarded for our foul deeds on Earth."

"And then?"

"I made my plea — I would give up my paradise, so that you could take my place, and be afforded all the pleasures denied you in your life. All the things you desired which I had promised you-"

" 'As soon as the war is over', I believe you said."

Achilles couldn't help but smile at the memory of their whispered promises, the vows spoken over moonlight and dying fire, sealed with lips pressed together in the darkness. Patroclus watched him sink into their shared past, felt his own heart flutter at the sight of it.

"I was always naive, you had made that very clear."

"And so, you would toil in the House of the Dead, while I would live in glorious solitude in Elysium. Your penance, was it?" Patroclus asked, voice rising, nostrils flared, the hand which gripped the gate of his fence clenched into the wood hard enough to splinter. Achilles caught his tone, groaning.

"I felt it was just-"

"And what about what I might feel, Achilles? Your martyrdom might have been well intentioned but I must ask, did you ever once stop to think that perhaps an eternity of paradise without you by my side might have been a worse hell than could be imagined by any poet or philosopher? That in casting me out of the sweet oblivion of Tartarus — where my soul might have simply dissolved into the mass of the dead, granting me that final peace I have always craved — that you were dooming me to a fate more cruel than any other?"

Achilles' dropped his eyes to the ground, unwilling or unable to meet Patroclus' steaming face.

"I was naive, and under duress. By the time I had realized my mistake, the contract was signed. There was no going back. I rationalized that you would have hated me regardless, even if we had been together, and that swift as anything you would have drunk from the Lethe, surrendered yourself to the anonymity of this world."

"You believed I could cast you from my life, my memory? You believed I could have relinquished those nights with you? Those endless days of our youth? You believed that, truly?"

"It was all I could do to keep from falling into despair, to convince myself that you were happy, and that I was no longer a factor in that happiness."

They were quiet, each incapable of speaking further. 

"And so when Zagreus began to tell you of me…"

Achilles huffed a laugh, lost in the memory of his young ward's infectious enthusiasm.

"I didn't believe it at first. I couldn't. But as time wore on, I knew it was you."

"And when he approached you about the contract, what then?"

"Well, he had come to you first, my love," Achilles began, taking another step forward. His words breached through to Patroclus' core, warming his face from within, bringing tears to prick at his eyes. "And when he said those words, 'risk it all', I knew you were still here. My Patroclus. My north star, my home fire, the other half of my heart. I knew you were waiting for me, and that our love could live on."

He reached for him, cupping Patroclus' cheek in his palm, bringing their foreheads together. The contact was enough to break him, to shatter his stubborn resolve. He pulled away, swinging his fence wide, ushering Achilles within the bounds of his home. He stepped over the threshold, suddenly overwhelming the meagre space of the garden, his robes catching on stray thorns. Patroclus held his face, eyes closed, thumbs tracing the lines of his features, matching memories with the reality before him.

"It has been difficult, this solitude. Yet, this moment has been enough that I might live another thousand lifetimes in happiness, my love."

Achilles brought a hand to his hip, drawing him near, another at the back of his neck to hold him close. His words fell upon Patroclus' cheek, to which his lips were pressed, murmuring softly into his soft flesh.

"You will have more than a moment with me, Pat."

"What are the terms of your contract now?"

"The same. Only now, I am free to return here to you whenever I am off duty."

"And is that often?"

"You will see me regularly. I cannot be exact with you, for time flows differently even within the realms of Hades itself. But yes, I will be here, and I will hold you, and I will be with you, and I will love you as I always have."

Patroclus dropped his forehead to Achilles' shoulder, breathing in the scent of him — the red clay of his Earthly homeland, still baked into the fibers of his being, perfumed with something softer, pomegranate and the blossoms of dark lilies. He breathed out, hot across the skin of Achilles' neck, and kissed him.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say that you love me, Patroclus, that you forgive me for my naivety, for my brashness, for all my failings."

"I love you, Achilles."

There was a pause as they embraced, Achilles' fingers knotted in his hair, pawing at him, clenching and releasing, just to feel the texture beneath his fingertips.

"I notice you said nothing of forgiveness there, my love."

Patroclus chuckled against him, dragging a nail down the front of his tunic.

"You have grown perceptive in death, I see."

They disentangled themselves, standing apart so as to take one another in in their entirety. Patroclus dropped to one knee, gasping the stems of his cut roses in his hands, twining them together with a length of string. 

"Perhaps you might bring these with you, as you return home," he offered, raising the bouquet to Achilles' waiting hand.

"Something to remember you by, while I work," he nodded, a smile playing at his lips.

"When must you return?"

"Soon," he said, glancing at an hourglass attached to his hip, sand the colour of the midnight sky tumbling slowly through the chambers, "It took me some time to find you."

"I understand. I shall look forward to our next meeting, whenever it might be."

"Will I meet you here, or in your glade? Zagreus gave me directions to the latter, but I must say this abode has its charms."

Patroclus laughed heartily, looking fondly across his residency. 

"This was all I ever desired in my life, Achilles. A modest home, a garden in which I might toil away my days, and my love by my side."

"If only."

"If only," he agreed. 

They parted, sharing a final kiss, before Achilles disappeared once more in a wave of light, leaving Patroclus alone with his thoughts, and the rippling breeze which disturbed the heads of his rose bushes. 

He retired to his home, removing his robes, slipping himself into a bath of water which had manifested silently in accordance with his desires, and remained there, floating in the warmth, until his mind began once more to drift.

* * *

“Do you sleep, in the House of the Dead, Achilles?”

They were laid out in Patroclus’ glade, eyes on the silvery wisps of cloud above them — coalescences of the mysterious vapour which enacted repairs throughout the realm — luxuriating in the still heat. Achilles lay parallel to the Lethe, the weight of Patroclus’ head resting against his breast. One arm lay behind his head — spear just barely within reach of his fingers — the other brought down across Patroclus’ chest, where the other held his hand in both of his own. It had been some time since their reunion, a litany of hours passed in bright heat and the warm reminiscence of their shared past.

“Not sleep, exactly. I suppose one might say it’s more of a torpor, a hibernation.”

“I see,” he replied, humming thoughtfully.

“Do you sleep here?”

He shook his head, toying with one of Achilles’ bracelets, running his fingers along the smooth gold.

“There is no sleep, no night even. Instead, I find that my mind merely sinks into itself. I have waking dreams — I suppose you could call them that — in which I relive moments from my past. Until you returned to me, they were filled with gaps, holes that had formed during my brief time in Tartarus.”

Achilles made a thoughtful sound above him, bringing his free hand down to scratch at Patroclus’ face, worrying the coarse hair of his chin.

“I wonder, darling, if you might have forgotten how to sleep.”

Patroclus sat up — Achilles’ hand falling to his lap, protective across his middle — and eyed him derisively.

“If you seek to mock me, you may return to your House.”

“Oh lie back down, will you — I was enjoying the sensation of it,” he replied briskly, patting at his stomach until Patroclus brought himself back down to lie against him. “It is a very real occurrence, in the afterlife. Shades need not eat, need not sleep, although they may still indulge if they see fit. Yet, without the call of the body to implore them, most don’t. They forget how, when not guided by the intrinsic rhythms of the physical form.”

Patroclus didn’t respond, overtaken for a moment by an intense sense of devotion, of thanks, that not only had his beloved returned to him, but that he appeared to have acquired a newfound introspection. He was far from the impetuous youth that Patroclus had worried over for decades, constantly awaiting the moment when his smart mouth would be the end of him.

“So what, then? I must relearn how to fall asleep?”

“It’s quite simple. I’ve never personally been very fond of it, although I am capable, yes. There is often far too much going on in the House for me to reach the state of calm required, although I would imagine here anything is possible.”

“How much longer do you have with me?”

Achilles rifled through his robes for his hourglass — a relic of the House, granted to him by Lord Hades whenever he took leave. According to Achilles, Hades controlled the sands, and the speed at which they fell, dictating Achilles’ allotted time away from the House. Patroclus had balked at the prospect of giving over so much of his freedom, but Achilles had assured him that the Lord of the House had been naught but fair in the centuries he had worked under him. Allegedly, upon the return of the Lady Persephone — Zagreus’ mother, as a scandalized Patroclus would soon find out — the Lord of the realm had mellowed significantly.

Achilles drew him back to himself with the sound of his hourglass against the stones, Patroclus blinking up at him.

“I have enough time that you might sleep, my love. Enough that I will still be present when you wake, at least.”

“What must I do?”

“Allow your mind to go blank, to grow as still as night, and to fall into it once more.”

Patroclus nodded, sceptical, but willing to try, and shut his eyes.

“You promise me you will still be here?”

“I will wake you, if necessary.”

“Kiss me.”

Achilles contorted himself, leaning forwards to press his lips to Patroclus’ forehead, breathing softly over his eyelids.

“I love you, Pat.”

“And you.”

With that, Patroclus prepared to empty his thoughts, focusing only on the sensation of Achilles’ finger where it traced a line from his collar to his navel, and back again. The rhythm was steady, perfectly in harmony with his breathing. He felt himself slipping, letting go of the edge of waking, drifting into darkness, untroubled by the return of memory.

Waking, he was momentarily disoriented, unsure of who or where he was. Behind him was a weight, sturdy and pulsing with life — or an approximation of it. He was covered, opening his eyes to a field of emerald fabric, piled around his curled limbs. Around his waist an arm rested, palm flat against his gently heaving stomach. A voice called to him from somewhere behind his head, rumbling through his body.

“How was that?”

He rolled flat onto his back, tucking his shoulder into the flat expanse of Achilles’ chest, laying their faces together.

“Centuries here, and I have yet to experience peace such as that. Thank you, sincerely.”

“You’re very welcome, as always.”

“When do you leave me?”

“Don’t sound so excited,” he replied, fishing once more for his hourglass, which still bore a significant amount of sand in the chamber. “A while.”

“Perhaps we could return to my home? I must tend to the garden — some of my herbs are ready to be picked.”

Achilles gestured for him to stand.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

At Achilles' insistence, Patroclus began to practice the process of sleeping. It began in fits and starts — peace suddenly interrupted by a fleeting memory, careening to the front of his mind with urgency, only to replay for him the same tableau he had scrutinized countless times before. As time wore on, he found the sense of emptiness easier to achieve, falling faster and more comfortably into a pattern of waking and dreaming. There were still days where he would become so engrossed in his gardening that he wouldn't notice the hours flying by, until he stood, knees creaking and groaning in protest, his back rendered useless for a long period to follow.

He found himself one morning — the Earthly markers of time returning to him as he re-established those old rhythms of life — awoken by the presence of a figure behind him. His hand reached swiftly for the knife kept under his pillow, wrenching himself into a defensive position upon his bedding, eyes narrowed and dark at the intruder. He softened as he took in the features — the surprised, guilty face, the raised palms, the coy, almost mocking grin. He breathed a sigh, relaxing once again, depositing the knife somewhere where it would hurt neither of them.

"You might have made some commotion to announce yourself, you fool."

Achilles grinned, shedding his outermost robes, leaving him merely in his tunic, Patroclus humming in appreciation.

"I know, I know. I had every intention of creeping silently in," he explained, leaning towards him, knuckles pressed into the mattress, "I wanted you to wake up in my arms."

"I will forgive you, in light of your noble intentions," he said, grinning, reaching for him, pulling him down and around him. 

"You are so generous, my love."

Enveloped as he was, Patroclus couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the foul miasma which sat heavily upon Achilles, festering in the very core of his body. He grimaced, shoving him away, landing heavily with a thud on the floor. His face sat incredulous, bordering on furious as he scrambled to stand, looming over Patroclus.

"Blood and darkness, Pat, what in the name of the gods was that?"

"You reek! You bear the stench of death on your clothes, your skin! It's foul! Where in Hades have you been?"

Achilles paused, sniffing at his clothes, reeling in turn at the scent, growing sheepish as he took a step backwards into Patroclus' yard.

"I… there was an infestation of Satyrs, close to the surface. I suppose I stopped noticing the smell after a certain point."

"Gods above, Achilles! Out, out!" he replied, shooing him into the garden, which had expanded itself, enough to accommodate a pool of water, shimmering in the heat, fed by a cascading waterfall, spawned from a rocky wall which hadn't been there the last time Achilles had visited.

"I'm sorry, darling. I should have bathed before I came. I was… I was eager to see you."

Patroclus shook his head, gesturing to the pool.

"Disrobe, I suppose I can bathe you, since you are clearly incapable of doing so yourself."

Achilles grinned, bearing his teeth not without some degree of hunger which stirred heat deep within Patroclus, before stopping himself, glancing uneasily around himself. 

"What if someone appears?"

"You won't be the first soul seen naked in Elysium, Achilles. And besides," he added, kneeling to fetch some herbs which might aid in the cleaning process, "A body such as yours should not be hidden from view."

He listened for the rustling of fabric as it was dropped to the ground, turning as Achilles bared himself in full, halting his gasp lest it embarrass him entirely. He was radiant in the light of the Elysian sun, his pale flesh shining golden in the spray from the waterfall, misty droplets already collecting in the divots of his musculature. All the statues of the realm could never match him, try as they might. Patroclus reached for him, hand flat against his stomach, their eyes meeting. He trailed his fingers downwards, unperturbed by the warning expression — modesty lingering from a lifetime on Earth and a death spent buttoned up in the House — reaching to grip him between his legs.

"I missed this, I must say."

"It has missed you as well, or so I hear," he replied, twitching in Patroclus' fingers.

"I seem to recall it being bigger."

Achilles snorted, lowering himself into the water with a sigh.

"I'm not fully there yet, I'm still awaiting my bath," he said, splaying his limbs wide, tilting his head back to rest against the cool ground. Patroclus lowered himself down, becoming tangled in his robe, huffing frustratedly.

"Remove it, before you strangle yourself, for goodness sake."

Patroclus groaned, standing, ripping the fabric harshly from his shoulders, flinging it in the direction of the house. He returned to his position, Achilles holding back laughter all the while.

"My patience is beginning to wear thin."

"Here, perhaps this will entice you," he replied, pulling Patroclus towards him, their tongues meeting. It was as far they had gone since Achilles' return, sending a wild thrill through Patroclus, released as a harsh sigh through his nose. He let him go, holding him steady.

"How was that?"

"Quite pleasant. It has been a while — a long while, by any estimate — and yet I find myself still affected by you in the usual way," he said, gesturing to the hardness beneath his tunic, Achilles nodding appreciatively.

"Perhaps you might join me, so," he offered, splashing a hand gently through the water as if to illustrate the available space, just happening by chance to brush against his own length, which sprang forth obscenely from the surface. Patroclus rolled his eyes — chuckling to himself at the realization that perhaps Achilles hadn't quite shed the entirety of his juvenilia. He disrobed, Achilles' eyes on him as his skin revealed itself, dark and rich in the light, falling to rest between his legs, a hand gripping strong along his calf.

"My beautiful man," he whispered, shifting to brush his lips from Patroclus' foot up to his knee, "My wonderful, beautiful man. Oh I would sing the praises of all the gods for a millennium from the sight of you alone, Pat."

"Racket enough to wake the Titans, I should think, if your voice remains as toneless as it was when we were young."

Achilles made a scandalized noise, baring his teeth to sink into Patroclus' flesh, deftly avoided as he slid down into the waters opposite him. They passed some time quietly, Patroclus scrubbing away at Achilles' hair and skin, revealing its golden lustre once more beneath the gore of the filthy Satyrs. Soon enough, however, baser instincts began to take hold, with Patroclus pulled across to sit in his lap, their hips pressed together, the friction indescribable. Mouths met in fervour, tongues clashing, Patroclus' fingers knotted almost painfully in his beloved's hair. He pulled away, speaking hot and fast to his ear.

"Do you wish to take this inside?"

Achilles' voice was a throaty growl in his ear, teeth clenched into the soft flesh.

"What matter does it make? I will have you regardless."

"Do you want my mouth, or?"

"I will take whatever you give me, my love."

Patroclus yanked harder on his hair — wrong answer.

"I want you to take what you desire, not what I say you may have. Are you a man or are you a boy?"

He listened for Achilles' intake of breath, could feel the tension in his grip, could feel the burning heat of his eyes as they bore into his soul. He laughed to himself, the sound stretching long into a pained groan as Achilles' teeth found his neck and bit down, hard enough to draw blood on a mortal body.

"I will make a mess out of you, I promise you that."

"I desire nothing less."

With that, he was hefted out of the water — Achilles' divine strength persisting through the afterlife — and was carried inside, tossed onto his bedding without care, crushed by the solid weight of the entire universe compressed within him. 

Oil was fetched, Achilles conscious of his gifts, as well as the vulnerability of Patroclus beneath the onslaught of his divinity. He entered with a sigh, pulsing warmth surrounding him, each lost in their own private memories.

"Am I hurting you? From what few times we managed this in life I remember much protesting."

Patroclus pushed himself back into Achilles' hips, shaking his head.

"Perhaps it is the mists, but my pain appears to have dulled in my un-life."

"So I might begin to ravish you, you could say?"

"Please," he whined, breathless at the sensation of Achilles dragging across his insides, "Please. Remind me of who I am."

"And who is that?"

Patroclus found his hair whipped around Achilles' fist — precisely why they weren't to grow it out during the war, and precisely why Patroclus had — his back arched painfully as Achilles drove into him.

"Say it!"

"I belong to you, Achilles. The greatest warrior of his age. I am yours, body and soul."

The grip on his hair lightened, but the rest of the assault did not, their hips meeting, Patroclus' head buried into his bedding, teeth clenched in the soft fabric. Achilles bore over him, bodies joined in exquisite heat, breathing into his ear.

"That's right. Although you needn't bolster my ego further with that warrior nonsense."

"I thought- ah! I thought it would take you there."

"It did, which is what I was afraid of."

Neither took long to finish, howling into one another, adrenaline peaking, hearts pounding in sync. Achilles collapsed upon his back, shrugged off with a laughing groan as Patroclus rolled into his back, the two of them luxuriating in the quiet peace of the house, suddenly silent after their exertions.

"I believe we might be making use of your new pond, Pat."

"Indeed. My intention had been to clean you, and yet here I am, a mess."

Achilles reached for him, hand strong on his chin, Patroclus' own grip on his wrist to steady him.

"I love you. You may belong to me, but the feeling is mutual. I am yours, body and soul."

"In perpetuity."

"Indeed. Whatever that word means, yes."

* * *

"I don't know why you insist on bringing these things up when you know they will only cause arguments!"

Patroclus wasn't sure what had shifted that afternoon; why his mood had soured so, why he had designed to dredge up old grievances and air them out. Perhaps he was still suspicious of paradise, still uneasy at the thought of unending happiness. Either way, an argument had unravelled between them, drawing a sharp distance where they sat apart.

"It is something I never received closure on, in living, that is all!"

"What does it matter now? Those women are dead, long dead, surely it matters not that I slept with them?"

"So you did, then? You admit it?"

"You knew this to be true, Pat! You told me it was necessary, to save face!"

"I didn't mean you should have the entire camp for yourself, you ignorant oaf!"

Patroclus fumed, stalking away, entrapped by the confines of the chamber, Achilles left simmering in rage behind him, hands on his hips.

"Why are you doing this?"

He had fought his voice calm, something altogether more tender wavering in the back of his throat. Patroclus swallowed his ire, turning to face him, hands thrown to the sky.

"Because I am selfish, and a cruel, insolent soul."

"Return to me. End this madness."

Patroclus fell into his embrace, holding him for a breath, before pulling away to arm's length.

"I am sorry. I care not for those women — or any else you might have known in your life. Truly, I don't."

"You are allowed to feel a certain way about my actions, Patroclus. I wish only that you would listen to my response when I tell you that our past is meaningless to me."

They had calmed, Achilles reaching for him, two fingers running down his arm, linking with Patroclus' own. He stared at them.

"Not meaningless, surely?"

There it was, the truth of his hurt, laid bare before the two of them.

"Not meaningless, no. Only that it seems small to me, compared to here and now. Nothing matters to me except you within the circle of my arms, and your breath in mine."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. But, you must remember; I am here, indefinitely."

"Yes," he breathed, lowering his forehead to Achilles', "You are."

* * *

He woke once to an emptiness in the bed beside him, the great shadow of Achilles drawn across the floor. He stood by Patroclus' mantle, inspecting his hourglass where it sat. 

"Are you leaving?" he asked, disappointed.

Achilles shook his head, unspeaking, turning the hourglass over upon itself.

"It hasn't moved, in some time."

Patroclus rose, confused, standing by Achilles side, one arm around his nude waist, the other across his chest. Together, they watched the sands shift in their chambers, never crossing the threshold between.

"Do you think it is broken?"

"It is a tool born of the power of the God of Death, Patroclus, I highly doubt it's broken."

He shrugged.

"Perhaps your services are no longer needed in the House."

"Do you think?"

"I wouldn't claim to know. Yet, what I do know, from our encounters with your young ward, is that those who leave the House without permission are often pursued, and yet I fear no pursuit."

Patroclus pulled him away, gently replacing the hourglass upon the stone edifice, dragging Achilles gently to return to their bed.

Wrapped once more in his arms, Patroclus sighed, running his nail in a circle in the centre of his lover's chest.

"Perhaps I should will the house a little larger, if you are to be staying permanently, my love."

"A second room might be nice. A third, even, if you wished to completely lose the run of yourself."

"Indeed."

A pause, as each settled further into the other's embrace, the quiet thought of an uninterrupted infinity with one another settling in the air.

"Perhaps you should check with young Zagreus, whenever he passes through again. He might have answers which could save us some heartbreak in the future."

"I will."

Time passed, and each grew closer, two lovers' hearts set aflame in the heat of the endless Elysian summer. 

In dreaming, Patroclus reached for Achilles, who found him, drawing him forth and into their shared history, weaving their love into the fabric of the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you, tell your friends.


End file.
